


The Flying Train To Shangri-La

by firstloveghost



Series: the stars shine, and it's magical [2]
Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Dreams, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories, but mixed with surrealism, less flower symbolism than the last time (sadly)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 17:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstloveghost/pseuds/firstloveghost
Summary: Minhyuk is a young god, filled with sunlight to the brim. He carries along a bag of dreams, boards the flying train to Shangri-La.Hyungwon sleeps, on the same train. And that's so weird, because the train is magic, promises its passengers a better land to live in. Who would sleep in front of such an adventure?But then again, who wouldn't want nice dreams?





	The Flying Train To Shangri-La

It might sound silly. But there is a train, rumored to take its passengers to a better place, far from the earth, from the dirt. Far from lost homes, away from the nightmares and the pain and the tears.

Who rides it doesn’t die, just disappears. And it’s placid, peaceful.

It might sound silly, nobody has actually seen it. Yet curious and lost souls alike search for it, at every platform, in every station.

They keep their eyes open, but they are blind.

_ The flying train to Shangri-La _, as it is called, doesn’t let on board just anyone.

⚸

Minhyuk makes his way down the train cabin, nobody pays him any mind. His hair is light, translucent; his skin the color of honey. He’s starlight and foam. Never-ending summer vacations.

Nobody pays him any mind.

The scenery outside passes by in a blur of movement, indistinguishable shapes. The glass windows are big, almost too big, too shiny.

The colors seem unreal, reds and golds. Bright.

It’s full of people there, almost all the seats are taken. Mothers scolding too-loud children; teens joking around, poking at each other in the shoulder. Their voices crack a little, and they all snicker.

It’s full of life. A secluded adventure.

Minhyuk smiles, tugs his bag along with him to the next cabin.

Laughter echoes in the space above his collarbones, as he slides the door shut.

⚸

It’s chilly, there’s a breeze.

The following cabin is quiet. Turning papers and padded rattling.

There is someone sitting every few sets, plenty of space. Opaque shapes, all of them, they carry no shadow.

Everyone is reading attentively, and Minhyuk finds it cute. Their little noses all disappear between the pages of vivid tomes.

Glasses-wearing ghosts, a moving book club of sorts, introverts only.

Minhyuk’s steps are soft, and he smiles.

It’s so different from the warmth of the mismatch of flesh-and-bones. Life takes on a different meaning, in the blue cabin.

The windows there are thin, and lean. The scenery outside is made of blacks and whites. Nobody pays him any mind.

Minhyuk closes the door behind himself with care, and shuffles forward. A small sigh accompanies him to the next cabin.

⚸

The third cabin is dimly lit. The air is dense, charged, hits Minhyuk in waves.

Pearlescent curtains hide the windows and the outside world pressed tight against them. Every color is so out of place.

The passengers grumble and mumble.

They’re all sitting on the left side of the train and that’s odd.

But monsters are always odd, they have unusual habits. Sometimes, they seem to think as one, sometimes they seem to not think at all.

Confined in the green cabin, they’re harmless. A gooey horde of almost-matter, stagnant skulls hanging off where their face should be.

They can’t reach the flesh-and-bones, so it’s alright.

They all tilt their heads in Minhyuk’s direction as he passes, but it’s the evident gesture of a bored child.

Minhyuk stares ahead, the grip on the handle of his bag rigid. He forces himself to walk a slow pace.

It’s alright, they might be harmless, but he’s not.

Once out of the door, the silence is deafening.

⚸

The flying train to Shangri-La is fast, and runs on railways that are unreal. It’s magic, and something else. Something old, older than Minhyuk. It’s impressive.

There is determination, laced in the walls, in the ceilings. Purpose.

In Minhyuk’s core, too, there is determination. Purpose.

He knows exactly how he got there, where he collected what counts as a train ticket.

Bargains like those, they aren’t as hard to come by, so it seems.

The flying train to Shangri-La hums, drifts away to one of Saturn's moons.

⚸

Minhyuk enters another cabin, and it’s cozy. Something drums quietly, deep in his chest.

He’s not expecting anything, except maybe he is.

It smells like sugar, like artificial strawberry syrup served in too-tall milkshake glasses.

It’s unfortunate, his hunger is a different breed.

Left and right, periwinkles brush the walls gently, it’s elegant. The seats all look empty and Minhyuk tries not to feel disappointed.

It’s the most delicate cabin so far, simple, effortless. Bronze nebulas swirl just out of reach, beyond the pristine glass of every window.

Minhyuk feels fascinated, wonders what kind of beings could be destined to sit in the fluffy seats all around him. He smiles, lopsided.

It’d be nice, but it’s not him, that much he knows.

Bag trailed behind him, he moves towards the door.

Time is capricious under his feet, Minhyuk has been walking for a while. The train doesn’t stop, and the cabins don’t either, they emerge one after the other. A long chain of what-ifs.

The heaviness of his bag pulls at his arm, an incessant reminder of his reasons, his whys and becauses.

Minhyuk never reaches the door.

⚸

There is a boy, folded on himself in the space of two seats.

He simply exists, comfortable, feet hanging off the edge. He sleeps.

His hair curls softly, dark strands leaning against fair skin.

His lips look soft, rosy; they form a pout, and it’s endearing. Minhyuk bites the inside of his cheek, smiles.

It’s just a boy, and he just exists. He makes rapid fireworks bloom in the column of his throat, impatient to leap out with a boom.

Wake the boy, see the color of his eyes, ask him _ if _ this, _ if _ that. Minhyuk wants to. Almost needs to.

Oh, but the boy is tired and the train knows.

The train knows and lets him rest. Minhyuk should too.

Yet his hands itch; to touch, to caress, to experience and to leave a sign of his passing.

But the boy is tired, and Minhyuk should let him rest.

He takes a step towards the door, and the bag slips from his hands.

It falls with a dull sound, and the corner curves against the floor.

The smallest of dreams escapes its impossible bottle.

Minhyuk can’t move, is frozen on the spot. He was careless.

And so he blinks and blinks as the dream swirls, coming alive against the periwinkles.

There is an ocean, and dark sand. The unforgiving heat has made space for a softened breath of wind. The sun sets, oh so slow, tints the water a pleasant shade of gray. 

It’s warm, so warm behind his eyes.

Everything changes yet nothing moves. There is his favorite feeling, sitting on the palms of his hands. And it isn’t shy, is never shy.

All the air gets taken away from its home in Minhyuk’s lungs.

The stars are about to rise when someone speaks.

“It’s a nice dream.”

Minhyuk snaps his head towards the boy, no longer sleeping. He finds that he hasn’t moved, just opened his eyes. They’re so dark.

They’re staring at Minhyuk, as the smallest hint of a smile graces his plush lips.

Heat rushes to Minhyuk’s cheeks, and he shivers.

He wants to undo the last minute, change its course, its destiny.

He can’t, of course, and maybe it’s okay. His dream cannot be placed back into its jar, much like any other ship in a bottle.

The boy speaks again, and it’s so soft. He bears bits of sleep in his voice.

“Why are you carrying dreams?”

Minhyuk bites the inside of his cheek, suppresses a smile. Being embarrassed, it feels very new. He kind of wants to laugh at himself.

“I’m giving them away.” he says. “Do you want one?”

The boy sits up then, stretches lazily. He has long limbs, there is grace in how he handles them. Minhyuk stares.

The boy shakes his head no, yawns behind a polite hand. “It’s alright.”

He hums, his head falls forward a little. And he blinks. “You’re giving away a whole bag of dreams?”

Minhyuk doesn’t think, just sees. He nods, and it’s so weird, he wasn’t expecting to be turned down, hadn’t even considered the possibility.

They’re nice dreams, brothers of journeys, collections of feelings, raw and real. All of them, fragments of life.

Who wouldn’t want nice dreams?

The boy kind of fails at reading Minhyuk’s mind. “You don’t want them?”

Minhyuk shakes his head no, of course he wants them, they’re _ his _ dreams, his _ pieces _. He smiles wide.

“I love them.” he says, “I just can’t keep them anymore.”

The stranger seems satisfied, lets the topic fall on the floor with no sound. But Minhyuk isn’t, won’t let go now.

Something faint, a murmur, reaches the tips of his ears, tells him to move.

He lifts his bag of dreams, places it gently on a seat beside the nebulas. He settles too, folds his own legs under himself like a child, thinks the train won’t mind if he indulges in a cabin that’s not his to occupy.

The thought of angering archaic existences scrapes his mind, then leaves, much like all reason does. Droplets on plastic umbrellas, they barely leave traces.

The boy watches him, his face a mask of indifference, his eyes magnets of interest. He seems to breath in very quietly.

“What’s your name?” Minhyuk asks; eyes shaped like almonds, they’re attentive as they take in all the angles and slopes. The poetry of the boy’s features.

His lips are so pretty, Minhyuk thinks, drags a single finger underneath his own absentmindedly.

What-if and possibilities, they swim around his thoughts like whales.

“Hyungwon.”

Hyungwon’s lashes flutter for a second, he seems surprised. Was the word not supposed to slip away from the cage of his control? A name much like a butterfly, then.

Minhyuk nods, offers a charming smile. “Minhyuk.”

He shifts then, presses a hand against his own cheekbone, soaks in the boy’s gaze. “What exactly are you, Hyungwon?”

Hyungwon sighs, doesn’t seem impressed. “That’s tactless.”

Minhyuk laughs, and it’s loud, very much tactless. A child’s laugh, scrunched nose and hiccups. “Sorry.” he offers, but that too is tactless.

Hyungwon blinks.

Outside, the nebulas get blown away by an invisible current, they make no sound. Hyungwon turns, mesmerised, as the bronze universe transforms into an ever-changing starry sky.

A blue hue overflows, it spills in the cabin; like moonlight does, but much drowsier, kinder.

Minhyuk doesn’t move, doesn’t sigh.

He only watches the colors, as they dance on Hyungwon’s pale skin. There is something very special about him, or maybe there isn’t. Sometimes, Minhyuk finds beauty in cheap windchimes.

“I’m a sleepwalker.” Hyungwon says, and it’s quiet. Lashes moving in tune with constellations. “I wander in and out other people’s dreams. Just that.”

Minhyuk’s lips part on a silent note. Unreal.

Sleepwalkers, they’re old, they’re few. Flesh-and-dreams, the fairytales call them. Human bodies, sunset hearts. They’re on the other side of illusions, watchers of time. So unreal.

Hyungwon turns to face him, and his expression is tinted blue. “That’s why I won’t need your dreams, if you were wondering.”

Minhyuk gets it, kind of. But they’re still nice dreams.

He licks his lips, doesn’t think, only sees. It sounds like the song of a whale, in the space between his lungs.

“What about you, Minhyuk? Should you even be sitting here?”

Minhyuk breathes, scratches the tip of his nose. He hums long and silly. “Probably not.”

He giggles, and there is something in his eyes that wasn’t there before, something wild. Something looking for trouble.

“I’m a young god.” he recites, and it’s ominous, theatrical. “It might not seem like it, yet this isn’t flesh, these aren't bones. I was born from sunlight, and live like sun-flares.”

It’s Hyungwon’s turn to stare, letting Minhyuk bath in his undivided attention. It feels good, so good, always did. Poetry for his ego.

The sun is the brightest spotlight, after all, and it’s part of who Minhyuk is. He loves it.

A narcissistic god, is what he is.

He used to chase life in bursts, meeting and parting on a whim. A long time has passed since, but Minhyuk still thinks of himself as a narcissist.

The bottomless pit of his core never feels sated, but he knows, it’s not attention he craves, not anymore.

(It’s hundred years of love.)

A solar wind makes the windows shiver soundlessly. The periwinkles on the walls sneeze like kittens.

Hyungwon stares as if everything makes sense, even if nothing does at all. “A young god, carrying a bag of dreams, on the flying train to Shangri-La.”

Minhyuk smiles. “That would be me.”

Hyungwon is silent for a long second, and Minhyuk keeps on smiling. He thinks, ah, I wish I could see him underneath a summer sky, smiling at something, anything really. The scirocco wind would carry him along wherever he wanted, he’s so pretty, he wouldn’t need to ask.

Hyungwon laces the fingers of his hands together. His voice is cautious, his lips curled around something far from a smile. Minhyuk doesn’t like it.

“I...I have seen you, in a dream. You were-”

“Ah, mine? Are you sure?” Minhyuk interrupts, blinking away summer skies and summer winds. “Gods don’t dream.”

“Then what are those?”

Minhyuk spares a glance towards the bag resting at his side. It’s heavy and full, it’s home away from home. “Memories.”

He hums, then, adds a sour note at the bottom of the page. “Were, anyway. I couldn’t find another way to inject them in the flesh-and-bones, too frail, so now they look like dreams.”

Hyungwon raises a nicely shaped eyebrow. He crosses his ankles, tries to look uninterested and fails about halfway there. It’s a much better look on him, lovelier than prudence.

“How?” he asks.

The time adjusts in the air. It starts moving left and right, an undecided clock handle. Minhyuk senses it, but doesn’t question it.

“I made a deal.”

“A deal. What deal?”

“A heart for an hourglass.” Minhyuk tries, licks his lips. “Of sorts.”

An half-lie, as there are no sorts, it’s actually pretty literal. His heart for an hourglass. And it doesn’t stand a chance against Hyungwon's dark eyes.

“...Of sorts.”

“Of sorts.” Minhyuk mouths. And that’s it. That’s all.

(“You’re so weird.”

“You don’t seem charmed.”

“Because I am not.”

“You’re so weird too, then.”)

⚸

From there, Minhyuk weaves. Threads of a bond, on top of the skeleton of a conversation. He braids reds and golds, blues and silvers, purples and bronzes, greens and pearls.

A beautiful crown of dreams and jokes and every bit of sunlight he has left in the hollow of his chest; where the heart he traded used to beat.

It looks beautiful on Hyungwon’s head.

It’s the only string that connects them, two strangers on a train, and Minhyuk holds onto it with both hands.

Hyungwon smiles, and it’s the prettiest sunset, the faintest sunrise. He’s intelligent, witty, his humor is terribly dry. He forms paths in his head, where Minhyuk lingers on flimsy daydreams.

He tries his best not to care, but his heart, _ oh _, his heart is made of the softest cotton.

He resembles that one constellation Minhyuk always sees, around three in the morning, very much. Unnamed beauty, it’s a sight.

Hyungwon smiles, and the conviction underneath Minhyuk’s feet wobbles.

There was determination, in his fall. He’s not so sure anymore.

Freeing the memories, the dreams, the light of creation and movement. It sounded like a solid plan, at first.

Giving them away is a good idea, he had thought. To let go and start afresh. Shangri-La would accept him, even made of bare flesh, fragile bones.

Behind him, he would leave a bunch of pretty polaroids, sticking to delicate lashes; for the briefest second, the old him, the real him.

Existing between the realm of sleep and the realm of wake. Suspended, intangible, but in good company.

Bringing a smile on someone’s face, somewhere. It was enough.

It was a good bargain. A heart for an hourglass.

But Hyungwon smiles and he’s not so sure anymore.

Where his heart was, only an empty birdcage.

Minhyuk wants to cry a little, but there is no time to waste. Hyungwon smiles and he’s not so sure anymore, but he has no choice.

Soon, he’ll be out of sand, and will forget.

Hyungwon’s name, his own name.

Names are important, names are like gifts, like legacies, Minhyuk knows. He will have to find a new one. One that won’t smell like the seabreeze. Won’t be as warm as sun-rays resting on honey skin. Won’t taste like a tactless laugh.

Maybe he’ll weave a pretty butterfly, in an impossible bottle.

He’ll keep it, just that one, with him. Maybe he’ll feel a little less alone, waking up again.

⚸

Minhyuk dares Hyungwon to sing.

There’s barely any context, and it’s such an unnecessary suggestion. It’s also silly, and harmless, like most of the things Minhyuk says.

Hyungwon groans, but obliges, and his cheeks are tired from smiling too much. He closes his eyes, because Minhyuk will just make him laugh again, so he claims.

Minhyuk doesn’t regret much, thunder never sticks around. Holding grudges is something he doesn’t do; the universe doesn’t give a shit, and he likes the philosophy.

Hyungwon sings way better than whales, it’s mellow and melts like chocolate covered strawberries on his palms.

Minhyuk regrets daring him with all his being, can’t let it go. Shards of anger, a flood of hunger. A storm hits.

Droplets of rain grace the train windows, Minhyuk doesn’t notice, doesn’t see. And Hyungwon sings.

Of nothing and everything. Makes up a tune, hums it too long, switches to rhymes in a language Minhyuk doesn’t understand.

It’s so beautiful and he can’t let go.

There is no way.

There is no way he’s letting go. Won’t let Hyungwon become some lifeless glimmer in a snowglobe.

Minhyuk is a young god, arrogant and loud. Tactless, captivated by the sea and the shore and the possibilities.

His hair is light, translucent; his skin the color of honey. He’s starlight and foam. Never-ending summer vacations.

He doesn’t care if nobody pays him any attention, as long as he can make Hyungwon laugh like the cheapest windchimes.

He’s a young god, and won’t let go now.

He doesn’t think, doesn’t care.

Kissing Hyungwon feels like reaching a lighthouse.

⚸

Minhyuk inhales and stars fill his lungs.

There is determination, in the press of his lips. The space behind him ceases to exist. The void swallows seat, train, nebulas, periwinkles; yet he’s not afraid. Not afraid at all, to fall, to float. He won’t disappear.

Hyungwon holds him close. It’s the only solid presence against Minhyuk’s body, graceful arms grasping around his waist. It’s tight, perfect.

Hyungwon kisses like coffee mixed with honey. It’s lazy, and sweet, and purposeful. He bites Minhyuk’s bottom lip, hums a pleasant note.

It’s better than eternity itself.

Minhyuk runs his hands through Hyungwon’s curls, and the sensation reaches the tips of his fingers. He feels bigger than his own skin.

The wild note, the pure edge of his soul, it burns. And it’s pleasant, warm like sunlight. He’s been looking for so long.

Minhyuk knows for sure then, he can’t let go. He can’t survive otherwise. A centimeter from Hyungwon’s lips is too far.

It’s a ominous and theatrical thought, and Minhyuk can’t help but break into a smile, against feverish lips.

A breath gets trapped in Hyungwon’s throat, and it’s endearing, somewhat flattering. Minhyuk beams, unrestrained and tactless.

Hyungwon’s raw lips give away soft puffs of laughter in return. He rests his forehead on Minhyuk’s shoulder, awfully fakes exasperation. “Really, I told you you’d just make me laugh again.”

Minhyuk hums, full of mirth. He leaves a kiss behind his ear. Lets a finger trace the tip of the spine, barely there. “So you don’t want dreams, you don’t want laughter.”

Outside the cabin, a supernova. It explodes in a million pieces, quiet and magnificent, like a snowflake dying against its siblings. It flashes harshly against the periwinkles, curled around one another.

Minhyuk blinks and the starlight lingers in his eyes, if only for a moment. “What is it that you _ want _, Hyungwon?”

Hyungwon’s lashes flutter, tickle almost-skin resting on top of almost-collarbones. Time reduces itself to an inside joke. “I saw you, in a dream.” he starts, and it sounds like a fairytale. “It was mine, I think.”

“I never have dreams of my own, and it’s so sad. But you, you gave me one, I think. It was hazy, but it was all mine.”

Minhyuk hums, doesn’t really follow. His pieces, they’re all there, in the bag beside the nebulas.

Hyungwon giggles, kisses whatever rests under his lips, soft and firm. “Time’s fickle, isn’t it? You gave me a dream and I wanted to find you, give you something back. It was only manners, at first. Gratitude? Of sorts.”

Minhyuk breathes, knows there are no sorts.

“But you,” Hyungwon sighs, hides in the curve of Minhyuk’s neck. Closes his pretty dark eyes, tucks away his rosy raw lips.

“You didn’t exist anymore. I couldn’t find you anywhere. No one ever dreamed of you and it was so sad.”

Minhyuk tries to wrap his head around words, letters, syllables, and time truly is fickle. Possible and impossible don’t blend well. Things don’t flow backwards, not for him. The past is ever so heavy and doesn’t move.

“I kept looking, pushed boundaries I didn’t know existed. Until I found a string.” Hyungwon’s voice gets small then, his hold around the young god tight. Phrases hushed and rainy, he doesn’t sound like he wants to speak at all. “Thread, soft and used. Around a heart in a bottle. All that was left of you.”

Minhyuk thinks then, his deal. The fear of becoming starless, an empty jar of fake smiles, once he and his heart parted ways. Nothing like it happened.

In fact, he remembers nothing happening at all. A shiver, maybe. And that was it. That was all. Wasn’t it too good? Arrangements with arcane existences don’t come without a catch.

He strokes Hyungwon’s hair, because offering comforting is easy, but only when you aren’t standing two steps from brain-splitting information. There is another sigh, coming from the periwinkles around them.

“I wasn’t sure I’d found you here, but Shangri-La seems like a nice place to be reborn. So I thought I’d give it a shot. Because you gave a dream of my own and I. I was greedy and wanted more. I wanted all of you.”

Hyungwon raises his head, bears all the weight of time on his shoulders. He’s brave, so brave. His lashes stick together a little, and he’s crying stars. Cotton-hearted, just like Minhyuk knows he is.

“It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, a blind treasure hunt for a foolish god.”

He hiccups, as Minhyuk wipes constellations away from the kindness of his cheekbones.

“But I guess, what I _ want _ is, just, _ just _to give this back to you.”

He breathes. Produces something from a pocket.

It’s a glass bottle, smaller than the ones Minhyuk carries, shiny and hopeful. It smells like a summer wind, the scirocco.

Inside, sunlight.

“I don’t even care if you can’t grant me dreams in which I can actually _rest_, and not play the part of the saint. Or the therapist. Or the fucking dragon-slayer. Just...take it. We have travelled far.”

Minhyuk inhales pure gold.

It burns, so hot, so unbelievably hot. He wants to speak, speak and never stop. Voice the deep longing, the immensity of his love. He thinks that maybe the universe does care afterall, or maybe that’s just Hyungwon.

Hyungwon, the most perfect arrangement of atoms and starlight. Full-time sleepwalker, occasional time traveller.

If he opens his mouth, he’s sort of afraid the gold will spill.

When it gets too quiet, Hyungwon snorts, and it’s ungraceful, it’s perfect. Minhyuk rushes to kiss him and the bottle breaks in a million pieces. Everything becomes too much.

The beating of his heart, frantic and abrupt. It hurts, it’s perfect.

The pressure against his lips is bruising, obstinate. Hyungwon holds him so close his fingers tremble. It sends shivers down Minhyuk’s spine, the force and the burden; and it’s bright, like the ring of an eclipse.

Hyungwon turns his head, breathes in the hollow of Minhyuk’s throat, leaves an off-beat kiss there. It seems like he still can’t read minds.

“You know, I just made a deal, no need for all this enthusiasm. An hourglass for a heart. It was a good bargain.”

Minhyuk laughs then, and it’s tactless. He’s tactless in almost everything he does, and he doesn’t think. He kisses the air out of Hyungwon’s lungs, and that’s tactless too.

“I’m a young god, I was born from sunlight, and live like sun-flares.” he recites, “You absolutely haven’t seen enthusiasm just yet.”

⚸

Hyungwon takes his hand, squeezes it gently. He sips his coffee, awfully fakes disinterest. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

He looks around, but it’s just a house. Nothing special about it. One story, no stairs, no stars.

Minhyuk nods, smiles; confident, charming, and careless. “Witches always know. This one in particular has intimate knowledge of dream problems.”

His eyes shine underneath the sunlight, and it’s pretty, it’s full of life. A sprinkle of mischief too, lingers. “His boyfriend is a pain in the ass, when ghosts bug him in his sleep. And I thought, we have something in common, my boyfriend is also cranky when he gets bothered in his dreams.”

Hyungwon pinches his side, grimaces. “You try it then. Imagine comforting someone who despairs about fallen teeth more than three times a week, see who gets cranky.”

Minhyuk sticks out his tongue. “Don’t tell me you're afraid of a couple of mirrors, then?”

Hyungwon sighs, doesn’t mention how much older, much wiser, much more powerful, those mirrors should be. “I’m a sleepwalker, not a vampire. Check your source.”

Minhyuk opens his mouth, about to say something, something silly, something petty, when the door swings open.

“Are you gonna stand there all day? The tea is getting cold.”

Minhyuk laughs, and it’s tactless, as always. Hyungwon sighs, but hides a smile behind a polite hand.

Changkyun rolls his eyes. He’s tired and has a headache. He still has to locate his glasses, in whichever realm, so he retreats inside.

The guests of the house of mirrors will surely find the way by themselves, it’s just a house.

“Hoseok, love, do we still have those globe amaranths? The ones I wanted to give to Minhyuk and his vampire boyfriend? Good, throw them away, I don’t fucking care anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this til the end  
its been real fun, using such a loose style to write once more!  
monsta x have all my heart (sigh) they deserve the prettiest pictures i can paint, even if a little awkward  
im actually even less confident posting this than i was about moonflower ghosts, but who cares  
i wish you safe travels and nice dreams!  
-hao (twt @eviloolong)


End file.
